The Most Important Thing
by 50boys
Summary: Tag for ELAC.  Dean realizes what's really important.


A/N: Many thanks as always to Faye Dartmouth for once again being my beta. I was going to just scrap this one completely but she encouraged me to post it. There are still a lot of mistakes here, but they're all mine. I'm so grateful for her wisdom and kind words.

And HAPPY ANNIVERSARY to SFTCOL(AR)S!

_The Most Important Thing_

Sam had the audacity to say those words, "_And I'm not all right, Dean, not at all. But neither are you. That much I know," _and Dean wanted to punch his face in. Instead, he turned to the Impala, smashing the trunk repeatedly with a sledgehammer.

"Stop it, Dean. Just stop it," Sam shouted throwing himself between Dean and the car in a weak attempt at damage control.

"Get out of my way, Sam." Dean's fury had been set in motion here, and heaven help anyone who dared get in its way.

"Talk to me, Dean, please."

Dean had a couple words for Sam, but was sure Sam wouldn't want to hear them. "Fuck you," Dean scathed expecting Sam to retaliate. Not only did Sam not retaliate, but he just stood there with a sympathetic look on his face.

And Sam's pitiful, sensitive demeanor was too much for Dean to take. He swung at Sam's chin, hard, but Sam twisted and dodged the attack. He countered by slamming Dean against the nearby shed, Dean's back against the boards as Sam stood facing him with his hands fisted in Dean's shirt.

Remorse filled Sam's eyes instantly, pain so intense, so real that Dean thought he could hold it in his hand.

"Dean," Sam said shakily while gently patting Dean's chest with his palm, ironically right over his heart. He looked Dean in the eyes then was gone, running furiously away from his brother. That had been hours ago.

&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

Dean swallowed at the anguish he'd seen in Sam. He didn't want to feel anything, especially not worry and certainly not guilt. He didn't want to look for Sam, afraid to face him, afraid to see Sam breaking inside. And Sam was a grown man, after all, and he could take care of himself. Sam didn't need him, right? The demon had made that abundantly clear. So Dean sat down on the dirt below him and buried his face in his hands, oblivious to time passing.

As the minutes fell away, so did Dean's anger only to be replaced by a persistent nagging. Maybe it was the shivers Dean felt coursing through Sam's body when Sam grabbed him. Maybe it was Sam's overly warm skin or the look of total desperation on Sam's face that drove Dean to relentlessly, methodically search for his brother.

&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

Dean found Sam by the old wooden bridge a mile or so from Bobby's place, tossing rocks into the water far below. He wondered what Sam was thinking as Sam watched each stone fall and splash a little too intently. Sam had one foot lazily draped over the edge of the bridge and despite the cooler weather, his hair was plastered to his face.

"You want to tell me what that little scene was all about?" Dean asked, standing behind Sam, as though subconsciously trying to sway the balance of power between them. He hadn't wanted to be confrontational but given the distance between him and Sam lately, that's how it must have appeared.

Sam seethed at the question and gave a little humph. He turned to glare at Dean, appalled by his brother's audacity. "I'm tired of the lies, Dean, the secrets. I'm tired of pretending everything is all right." He might as well have spit the words.

Somehow Sam's anger made things easier for Dean. Anger he could deal with, but a placating, sympathetic Sam he couldn't bear.

Since their dad died, Dean felt smothered by Sam's attention and annoyed by his concern. Sam was trying to help but all his efforts seemed patronizing. Dean knew he wasn't being fair. Sam lost a father, too, but still Dean felt his own pain was greater. He was closer to their father, so his wishes, mainly his wishes to be left alone, should be honored. He wasn't a child. He wasn't anybody's child anymore.

"What do you want me to say here, Sam?" Dean asked, seriously not in the mood for a heavy talk. But he was worried. Sam had been gone a long time. He'd had many hours alone to think and Sam's past…well… Sam's past wasn't good. There was way too much pain there. And Sam had told Dean he wasn't OK. So Dean thought maybe he'd talk to Sam now, just a little, just to dull that pain in Sam's eyes.

Sam moved to stand and Dean saw the slight wince and the subtle way Sam's hand moved to his side.

"You came to me this time, Dean. I'm not asking for anything anymore," Sam rasped as he flashed a sad smile. Dean felt his insides twist a little.

"What's going on with you, Sam? He didn't like the finality of Sam's words. Something was definitely "off" with his brother.

Sam stared at the water, swaying gently, almost hypnotically near the 50 ft. drop. On instinct Dean stepped closer and reached out to steady him, but Sam shirked off the assistance.

Dean surveyed the scene in front of him. The old bridge fit with its surroundings of century old oak trees and moss covered stones. It seemed peaceful and undisturbed, as though it hadn't seen a human hand in years. A few of the planks had fallen away and the rail was rotted through - interesting to look at but not safe to be near. And was that blood near Sam's feet?

"I want you to move away from the edge, Sam," Dean ordered, suddenly afraid as the situation unfolded around him. The time for quiet conversation was quickly passing. But Sam gave no indication he even heard his brother.

"What's the point of it all anyway, Dean. Just to suffer and die?" Sam's voice caught on the last word. His eyes were glistening now and Dean didn't like the pained, unfocused look his brother gave him. And he definitely didn't like the hopelessness behind Sam's message.

Sam was clearly sick or hurt, and Dean wondered which it was and why he hadn't seen it sooner. There were times in the past when he knew Sam was ill before Sam himself realized it.

Dean groaned inwardly, his worry and frustration building. He knew how difficult this situation could become. Dean could see the reddish tone to Sam's skin and the overly bright eyes. Even as a child Sam's high fevers usually left him frightened and disoriented and Dean was always scared that Sam would somehow harm himself while hallucinating. He really didn't want to have to wrestle with Sam on the edge of this bridge.

"Sam, please," Dean begged.

"You could be free."

Free? "Aw, shit," Dean muttered to himself, well aware now of what was going on in Sam's head. Sam _wasn't _thinking clearly. Did Sam really think his death would offer Dean freedom? Couldn't he see that his death would leave nothing for Dean but complete devastation? Could Sam really be this confused about how this brother thing worked?

"Sam, you're hurt. Look at me. Don't look down, look at me," Dean ordered roughly, hoping to command Sam's attention. It wasn't working.

The situation was out of control and Dean felt his adrenaline surge at the enormity of what might happen here. He contemplated just pulling Sam backwards but was afraid any further moves by him would end tragically for Sam. "I need you to move away from the edge _now,_ Sam," Dean yelled.

You don't need _anything_ from me, Dean," Sam shot back.

Wow, how Sam came up with that, Dean couldn't fathom. How ironic that all along Dean thought Sam didn't need him. But now Sam was standing on the edge of a bridge bleeding out emotionally because Dean had shut him out. Guess the demon lied.

Dean almost laughed, but then Sam stared straight at him, blinked several times, and called him Dad. And the apologies poured out of him, so much of it undistinguishable but Dean heard enough. "Sorry…do better…colt…" Sam choked out almost panting as he spoke.

Each word Sam said was like a knife in Dean's stomach. Dean thought of how he'd given Sam hell for Sam's last words to their father, "_Too little, too late_," he'd said then had the nerve to think he suffered more. Sam was tearing himself apart with guilt and remorse. Dean wondered why it took Sam's little "edge of the bridge" demonstration to see what Sam held in. Apparently it took a fevered Sam to say what a lucid Sam couldn't.

But the time for talking was _over. _Sam's knees buckled and his head dropped to his shoulder and before Dean could blink, Sam was toppling sideways. Dean made a desperate grab for his brother, clinging with everything in him to Sam's thin shirt to prevent the fall.

A scream ripped from Dean's mouth as agony seared through overtaxed muscles. Still, heavy as Sam was, he wasn't as heavy as Dean remembered. Sam had lost weight and Dean managed to shift Sam's fall from air to the safety of the land.

Dean adjusted his hold on Sam and laid him on his back. Sam moaned with the jostling but never opened his eyes.

Sam's skin was hot to the touch and Dean eyes were riveted to the widening red spot on the side of his shirt.

With shaking hands, Dean lifted the bloody garment and scanned Sam's torso for injuries while trying not to think about how freaking close Sam had just come to dying. What he saw took his breath away - deep, dark bruising from shoulder to hip along Sam's right side crowned by a neat row of what must have been at least 40 stitches. The angry looking wound had opened and oozed bright yellow pus.

Dean wanted to vomit. Sam's injury was sickening by anyone's standards but more so to Dean because this was his _brother_. He'd thought Sam escaped the car crash without a scratch. Looking back, how could he even have thought that was possible? And while Dean's miracle recovery left him mostly cured, Sam's recovery wasn't nearly so fast. Sam's body was still healing, though not doing a very good job of it.

Dean pulled out his cell phone to call for an ambulance then thought better of it. Bobby's cabin was secluded, surrounded on all sides by nothing but wilderness with the nearest hospital at least 25 miles away. It would take medics at least half an hour just to get to them. So Dean dialed Bobby, his now bloody fingers fumbling over the numbers, and soon heard the familiar rumble of Bobby's pick up followed by a door slamming and finally a rushed, "Shit, Dean. What happened?"

Bobby's concerned face appeared in front of his own.

"Help me get him up," Dean pleaded, lifting Sam's shoulders while motioning for Bobby to grab his feet.

"Dean, you shouldn't be lifting…"

"Damn it Bobby, there's no time for this. Sam's needs a hospital, he's burning up."

"Did he bust open them stitches?" Bobby demanded, exhaling a shaky breath.

"You _knew_ he was hurt?" Dean accused, lashing out at Bobby.

"You didn't?"

And with those two words, Dean realized he had nobody else to blame for this mess. The distance between him and Sam was there because he put it there. He wanted it there. Things were easier, safer, if he didn't' have to face Sam and deal head on with the death of their father. But Sam couldn't leave it alone. Dean had thought Sam was pushing him because Sam needed the contact. And Sam did. But the fact that it had come to this, that Sam had so overwhelmingly neglected his own health, and had tried so fiercely in the wake of their father's death to be strong, spoke with clarity that Sam's concern had been only Dean all along.

&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

Dean sat beside Sam's hospital bed watching the IV pump lifesaving antibiotics into his brother's bloodstream. He'd almost lost him.

Dean looked at his brother, really looked at him for the first time in a long time. Sam's white skin under the white sheets made him look breakable and so much younger than his 24 years. Still, Sam's eyes bore dark circles and he had worry lines at the bridge of his nose from the pinched expression he too frequently wore – even in his sleep.

Dean took in the ugly bruising around Sam's right eye felt nauseous at the reality of Sam's injuries, knowing that the worst of it was now covered by bandages and blankets. Sam's doctor told Dean of Sam's condition – all the things Sam never told Dean himself. Cracked ribs, a bruised kidney, a healing concussion along with numerous cuts and abrasions Sam had hidden from him. And of course the obvious infected gash to his side that damned near almost killed him.

Dean wondered what else Sam had hidden. Or maybe it wasn't that Sam had hidden anything. Maybe it was just that Dean never asked. Dean didn't remember anything after the crash except waking up in the hospital and gagging on the ventilator with a panicked Sam by his side. They hadn't talked about anything before their dad died, and they certainly hadn't talked at all after.

Dean felt a desperate need to hear the details of all of it now. But that wasn't going to happen because the only one who could tell him was lying unconscious in a freaking hospital bed. Sam almost died with those secrets.

&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

Sam slept for nearly two days, Dean by his side in the rickety old hospital chair. He awoke to feel the warm hand of his brother across his bare arm and choked up a little. Dean's head snapped up and he moved forward, scanning his brother nervously for further signs of distress.

"Easy, Sam. You need anything?

Dean could see Sam taking in his surroundings, the hospital furnishings, machines, and finally the tubes hooked to his own arms. And he could tell by the questioning expression on Sam's face that Sam didn't remember what had happened to put him there.

"Don't worry, Sam. You're all right. Just rest and I'll be right here."

Sam's eyes closed slowly and he fell into a deep sleep.

&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

Sam grew stronger little by little. And Dean found that as his worry for Sam's health faded, his anger over the situation flared. Sam knew better than to hide injuries and he knew how dangerous wounds could become when left untended. Sam wasn't a child and this whole incident left Dean feeling like he was expected to pick up the pieces to yet another crisis. How _dare_ Sam put his own health at risk.

The days passed between them filled with forced conversations and phony smiles. Then the burning question was thrown out there for Sam to hear. "Why the hell didn't you just tell me you were hurt, Sam?" And Sam had no good answer. He just moved to roll away from Dean but the pain in his side stifled his motion. He grimaced as it flared, squeezed his eyes shut, and concentrated on breathing through it as his body shook with fatigue and nausea.

"Sam? Sam, what is it? Are you hurting?"

The million-dollar question. But Sam rasped out a weak, "I'm fine," and closed his eyes.

Lies and solitude, that's what they'd been reduced to. Any kind of conversation was apparently beyond them at this point. It seemed they were back to square one.

Dean shook his head and walked out the door.

&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

The doctors told Sam he was well enough to leave the hospital but gave pointed instructions about finishing medications and bed rest.

Dean returned to Bobby's to gather some clean clothes for his brother to wear on the trip back. He rummaged through Sam's bag and brought out the only pair of jeans Sam owned apart from the blood-smeared pair at the hospital. He continued searching the bag's meager contents for a clean shirt but came up empty. Sam had necessities, a toothbrush, deodorant, soap, but nothing that was valuable to him, nothing sentimental.

Dean opened Bobby's hall closet, the most likely place Sam would have hung his clothing since he'd been sleeping on Bobby's couch. He saw only Sam's coat and for the first time really noticed its tattered condition. There were mended tears along the front and sides and despite the time that passed since Sam last wore it, the coat smelled of smoke.

Sam's extra boots were on the floor by the door and Dean stooped to look at them taking in the obvious bloodstains across the tops. He wondered whose it was because the possibilities were endless and Dean felt that familiar knot twist in his stomach again.

Where were Sam's things? He opened Bobby's cabinets and all his closets looking for some shred of evidence that Sam actually stayed there but he didn't find it.

Dean stood and ran his hands down his face. Sam had what little he needed to get by and nothing more, nothing personal, nothing to tie him to this world. Dean had the Impala, a trunk full of weapons, a box of old photos, the amulet around his neck, and even a few souvenirs from a couple special women he'd met. And he had his father's journal, and his wallet and coat, but Sam? Sam buried their dad's dog tags at their mother's grave.

If Sam had died, there would have been nothing left to show he'd ever lived. Worse still, there was nothing to show he planned to continue living.

Part of this was Jessica, of that Dean was sure. You can't lose somebody you love along with all reminders of them then acquire more things to fill the hole. When you know how easy it is to lose, you freely concede to have nothing. And really, Sam had lost far too much – his mother, girlfriend, all his possessions, his hopes and dreams for a normal life, and now, his father. Sam's list was longer than Dean's. And all of Sam's losses were connected to him in some crazy, demonic way that left Sam with a crushing sense of hopelessness and guilt. It just wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

But didn't Sam understand that he had a brother? A brother that could not survive without him? It looked for all the world to Dean like Sam had just given up or was holding on by some tenuous thread.

Then it hit Dean like a weight falling on his chest. He was that thread. Sam was holding on for him, trying to be strong for him. And he was pushing Sam away.

&-&-&-&-&-&-&-&

Dean entered Sam's hospital room to find Sam waiting for him. He'd bought a new shirt and jeans for his brother and set them on the bed.

Sam eyed the clothing and voiced a sincere sounding, "Thanks," before grabbing the items and hastily dressing. He grabbed his discharge papers and headed for the door.

Dean caught his arm and Sam just stared at him with a hurt, hollow expression.

"Look," Dean began. "Ah shit, Sam. I've been an ass. Losing Dad, I just…" Dean struggled to continue. "I can't fix anything, Sam. I can't help myself, so how the hell can I help you?"

Sam cleared his throat. "When Jess died, I would have died too if not for you," Sam quietly confessed. That pain is so…" Sam trailed off, suddenly finding his voice a little weak. He swallowed and looked away from Dean, and Dean noticed sullenly that Sam wasn't using the past tense. "I wanted to be there for you like you were for me."

Dean understood. Sam had decided it was Dean's turn to be protected, Dean's turn to feel saved. Sam summed up his actions the past month so effortlessly. And his actions made sense. Dean knew that because after Jess died, he was the hovering brother. And Sam didn't push him away.

"Then when Dad died," Sam continued, "I couldn't face it but I had you. When I watched you in that hospital, with all those tubes hooked up to you…man, I thought I was gonna lose you. "

Sam's description hit a little too close to the mark for Dean considering only days had passed since Sam himself had been hooked up to all those tubes.

"But you _lived _and even though Dad died and I felt guilty as hell, I was happy, you know? Because you didn't and I believed that somehow together we'd be OK. But I'm not what you need, Dean. I get it."

The brutal sincerity behind Sam's words and the grief stricken look on his face tore at Dean in a profound way and he did the only thing that felt natural to him in the moment. He laughed…a full, rich, from the gut laugh – because the sheer irony of what Sam said was really funny. And because there's a thin line between laughter and tears.

Dean had spent _years_ missing his brother, desperately wishing Sam would come home. He lived a lonely, quiet existence without Sam, a life he vowed he would never live again. And Sam had just uttered the words that Dean had been craving since they were children. T_ogether we'd be OK. _

Dean scrubbed his hands across his face and let out a sigh. He'd lashed out at Sam too many times and Sam didn't deserve any of it. But Sam never backed down. He stood by Dean until he literally couldn't stand anymore. And Dean realized he somehow knew all along that Sam would.

Dean pulled himself together and took in the bewildered look on Sam's face before slapping him on the shoulder and prodding him toward the door. "Family is the only thing I've ever needed, Sam. Well, that and maybe a cute nurse every once in a while," he added as a pretty brunette walked by.

Sam rolled his eyes and Dean smiled.

Dean had lost so much, but he hadn't lost everything. He hadn't lost the most _important _thing. A whirl of thoughts filtered through his mind. Grief and regret were among them but so was contentment - contentment with the here and now, with his place again beside a living, breathing Sam.


End file.
